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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596803">Jimsonweed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(sort of?), 1970s, Canon Compliant, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, First Time, Hallucinations, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Idiots in Love, Jimsonweed, M/M, Mustaches, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sex Pollen, apparently jimsonweed is also called devil's cucumber, honestly it really just writes itself doesn't it, yes ok I have a real thing about Crowley's mustache IDK MAN</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:20:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,612</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596803</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale buys a potted jimsonweed, and Crowley faces the consequences.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, The Sticky Stigma</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Jimsonweed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to racketghost for the beta!!!</p><p>Let me get a couple of things out of the way.... 1) I've never posted E fic but I seriously could not let this DTIYS pass me by and so .... this is a bit of a compromise 2) I have no idea what actually happens if you eat jimsonweed seeds and take zero responsibility if anyone adventurous decides to find out, so for God's sake please do more research than I did writing this fic if you're anywhere near them 3) this is seriously dubcon, so be mindful. One of the characters hallucinates through most of it which is not an effective state of mind to give consent.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>“What, and I cannot stress this enough,” Crowley hissed, “the fuck.”</p><p>He was backed full against the far wall, both hands cupped over his mouth, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible. Aziraphale stared at him, and then at the pot that he had hoisted against his hip.</p><p>“Oh,” he said, “I just, you know – you’ve given me so many lovely books over the years, and I thought I would try to –”</p><p>“Tell me you don’t know what it is,” the demon snarled. It had to be an accident. Didn’t it?</p><p>“It’s a jimsonweed,” Aziraphale said, and he blushed a little. “Also known as a devil’s trumpet.” He coughed. “I thought the nickname was clever.”</p><p><em>Trumpet</em> was an apt descriptor for the long, snow-white bells that lifted from the host of leaves; it looked as though an angelic choir had descended to blow their horns from the circle of Aziraphale’s arms. Crowley inched down the hall, still staring at them. It was <em>blooming.</em></p><p>“I believe that I may have also heard the shopkeeper call it a thorn apple,” Aziraphale went on, shyly producing a gardening insert and squinting at it. “I took notes. The Latin name is a datura stramonium.” He frowned a little. “Oh, dear, this says it’s a hallucinogen.”</p><p>“Yes, it is,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. “Aziraphale, it’s also called a devil’s snare.”</p><p>It was also, by no small measure, his least favorite plant on the entirety of the planet – which was unfortunate, since it was also increasingly common. Over the last several hundred years, the hardy jimsonweed had made its sinister way across multiple continents and, since it did well in temperate climates, had flourished on almost all of them.</p><p>Frankly, in his opinion, it was a hell of a work hazard. One could be minding one’s own business (or multiple other people’s, but that was besides the point) and stumble across an entire cluster of them, their pure white blossoms pointed directly skyward, leading to hours of incapacitating visions of –</p><p>“ ‘Devil’s snare,’” said Aziraphale, still reading the card. “Yes, that’s on the list. Oh look, it’s also called the ‘devil’s cucumber.’” He frowned, evaluating the plant. “What part is supposed to be –”</p><p>“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted. He could feel the beads of sweat forming on his brow. “You have to go.”</p><p>“Go?” said the angel, startled. “I’ve only just arrived – your lovely new flat, we were going to –”</p><p>“We’re not debating this. Call it a rain check.”</p><p>“But –”</p><p>“Angel, it’s <em>me,</em>” said the demon, caught on the knife edge between terror and total exasperation. “It’s talking about me.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I’m the,” he gestured, “you know,” and when Aziraphale did not clue in, he sighed. “The cucumber.”</p><p>Aziraphale stared at him. His eyebrows descended ominously, and then lifted in astonishment, and then, as if the need for confirmation was beyond his control, his gaze flitted downward. Crowley watched him swallow.</p><p>At no point had he expected his plan to derail this badly. The original plot had been simple enough; over the course of the last few days, he had purchased a furnished flat in Mayfair, arranged the display of paperwork on the kitchen counter, and then given Aziraphale a ring, dropping the innocent suggestion that he come by. The plan, concealed in the guise of housewarming drinks, was to shock him with either the Bauhaus décor or the amount of the down payment, with the bushy ginger mustache that he was carefully cultivating as a weapon of last resort. Every detail on display was fully intentional, for all of these items stood in sharp contrast to a dowdy, forgotten, century-old bookshop, run by someone who still wore a fucking <em>waistcoat</em>.</p><p>It would have been fun, especially since Aziraphale deserved some occasional provocation. It was the 1970s, for crying out loud. The angel moved at a glacial pace when it came to everything, from clothes to telephones to the tenuous nature of their own fragile relationship (and the demon refused to think too much about that, or the phrase<em> you go too fast for me,</em> which had been lodged under his ribs like a blade for the last ten years).</p><p>Well, sometimes he needed a reminder that the world wasn’t going to wait for him, and neither was Crowley. Crowley wanted to move with the times. Crowley wanted –</p><p>It was probably fairly clear what he wanted, at this particular moment.</p><p>“Look, I’m not going to apologize. This is not my fault,” he said firmly, trying to convince himself as well as the angel. Dimly he was aware that the floor of the entrance hall was beginning to glitter, brilliant as a disco ball. “You’re the one who bought a jimsonweed.”</p><p>Aziraphale was still not looking him in the eye, which was disconcerting. “It makes you h–”</p><p>“Hallucinate,” Crowley interjected hastily. “Yes.”</p><p>The angel frowned, finally tearing his eyes away to look at the card in his hand. “No, that can’t be right,” he said, sounding disgruntled – yes, actually <em>disgruntled</em>. Crowley supposed that was better than the alternative of <em>appalled.</em> “This says you have to consume it, and even then I don’t think it’s very potent, or else it wouldn’t be in a shop.”</p><p>“Maybe that’s how it works for humans,” he said tightly. “But demons just have to breathe in the pollen.”</p><p>“And then you hallucinate,” Aziraphale mused. “Hallucinate – what?”</p><p><em>You, </em><em>actually,</em> Crowley did not say. <em>Mostly jus</em>t<em> you.</em></p><p>He swallowed back the confession. He had never meant to tell Aziraphale about the plant to begin with, nor the fact that his track record with it was becoming somewhat humiliating. Despite never seeing so much as a sprout of it in Eden, or at any point during the next few thousand years, the frequency with which he encountered them these days was accelerating exponentially, and somehow every episode ended more poorly than the last.</p><p>The last time he had seen one had been the worst one of all. Four years ago, he had dropped by a town in New Jersey, across the pond, to execute a backlog of temptations, but instead of accomplishing any of them, he been incapacitated by a field of the stuff, their endless white trumpets bobbing in the wind. He remembered those hours only vaguely, though he did recall being convinced that a host of Aziraphales, in various states of undress, was descending from the sky. They had set their lips to their horns all at once. He thought he might have blacked out not long after that.</p><p>A full day later, he had come to in a petrol station, with someone setting a bucket of ice between his legs.</p><p>Bit awkward, that. His rescuer had not much liked the appearance of a giant black snake, or the uproar that it had caused when it made its rapid departure. But then, Crowley, having determined that he didn’t much like New Jersey, thought that the difference of opinion was a bit of a wash, all things considered.</p><p>An idea struck; his memory coiled back, snagging on the decision to become a <em>snake. </em></p><p>Yes.</p><p>Brilliant.</p><p>“Excussssse me,” he said, “but I think you’ll agree that this conversation should be over,” and the end of the sentence was almost lost as he changed, his prickling skin rippling into scales, his spine becoming somewhat longer and abandoning any pretense at a pelvis (or any associated appendages, for that matter).</p><p><em>Crowley, </em>someone said, from far away. He let his tongue slide out, tasted the exasperation.</p><p>Tough luck, he told Aziraphale silently, and he fled.</p><p>It had been a good exit strategy, but it was not without its consequences. Shrinking down to the size of a serpent, even a very large one, had accelerated the effects of the pollen in his system. As he slithered towards the kitchen, the disco-floor flashed a series of multi-colored lights (a dizzying vision, in a form intended to have dichromatic sight) before beginning to buckle and fold under him, as though the tiled floor somehow had become tectonic.</p><p>The lights faded away. Against his underbelly, the hard surface melted into a vast expanse of white, tickling feathers.</p><p>Crowley lunged into his human form almost without thinking about it.</p><p>He needed a drink. He thought that it was possible that he had never needed a drink so badly in his life.</p><p>Unfortunately, he realized, he had come to that conclusion far too late. True, the cool colors of his kitchen were grounding, but as he took down a snifter with trembling fingers, he couldn’t seem to figure out where the counter-top was, or why it was rippling like the surface of a lake. Miscalculating the distance, he missed it entirely and smashed the glass against his hand.</p><p><em>Crowley, </em> someone called. <em>Are you all right?</em></p><p>Just dandy, Crowley thought, staring down at the shards. Never better.</p><p>He swayed. He thought the floor might be moving too. He also saw, with a little twinge of surprise, that somewhere he had obtained a palmful of rubies, glittering scarlet. They had been cut too finely; their edges were sharp. They were hurting him. He tried to drop them and could not.</p><p><em>Oh my God, </em>said the voice, approaching. <em>Your hand. </em></p><p>" 'S fine."</p><p><em>It's </em>not<em> fine,</em> said the voice sharply, <em>let me just, </em>and then, to Crowley’s astonishment, someone took hold of him and did something like magic. Fingers smoothed down the center of his palm and left a streak of shining light in their wake, painless, perfect, the rubies folding themselves back into skin.</p><p>The demon looked up. A multitude of Aziraphales were staring at him, their brows furrowed in concern. This time around, mercifully, none of them were disrobing. All were simply in the same stuffy ensemble that Crowley had been staring at since cravats had gone out of fashion, tightly-buttoned shirts, bow ties, waistcoats marred by the chains of mirrored pocketwatches –</p><p>Even as he gazed at them, they shivered and coalesced into a single, worried Aziraphale, and then periscoped down into a disembodied mouth, which pursed in disapproval.</p><p>“Oh, that’s not bad,” said Crowley dreamily. “A mouth is all right.”</p><p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p><p>“I don’t like it when there’s too many of you.”</p><p>The lips parted, making a soft little o of surprise. The demon leaned back against the counter, slid a hand down his black silk shirt, the contact slick against his chest, as he watched them move. Eventually, they shaped stumbling words.</p><p><em>Too – too many of me? </em>it repeated.</p><p>“Well, you know,” said Crowley. He undid a button, and then two. The pollen was making him uncomfortably hot. “Last time there were, oh, maybe thirty.” He shivered. “One angel is more than enough, thanks.”</p><p><em>Oh, my dear, </em> said the mouth quietly, and Crowley felt his fingers stilled by something he could not see. <em>Can I – what can I do to bring you out of it?</em></p><p>“Out of what?”</p><p>
  <em>Whatever the – pollen is doing to you. </em>
</p><p>“You can’t,” he said, surprised. “It will pass when it will pass. Obviously. God is too much of a bastard for anything less.”</p><p><em>Well, really. </em> <em>There’s no need to blaspheme.</em></p><p>“There absolutely is,” Crowley snapped. “You know She has a warped sense of humor; you might as well let me say it. I mean, come on, the existence of jimsonweed alone is proof of that. White, angelic trumpet flowers that make you want to –” He could feel his throat tightening painfully. “As if it isn’t hard enough, spending six thousand years convincing an angel that you’re not going to push him into anything that he doesn't –”</p><p>He tugged his hands free, rubbed furiously at his eyes. It was a long time. Six thousand years was such a long time.</p><p>
  <em>Crowley. </em>
</p><p>“Sorry,” he muttered. Was he weeping? He wasn’t sure. The uncertainty alone made him laugh a little. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Teeth tugged briefly on the bottom lip, and then the mouth said,<em> Yes. </em><em>Me</em><em> too.</em></p><p>“I’m so glad you’re not here to see this.”</p><p>The mouth said, a little impatiently, <em>yes, well, it would be quite awkward if I had stayed, </em><em>wouldn’t it.</em> It was fluttering around like a butterfly, nervously coming nearer and then flitting away again, unwilling to land anywhere.</p><p>“Yeah, it would be,” Crowley said thickly, and he reached for it, caught it, held it cupped between his hands, felt its frightened wings beating against his palms.</p><p><em>Crowley,</em> it whispered, sounding nervous. <em>Listen to me, my dear – don’t do anything you might – regret –</em></p><p>But then, demons were not very good at resisting temptation.</p><p>At the touch of his lips, the butterfly changed and became a mouth again, hot and hungry – and somewhere, Crowley thought suddenly, Aziraphale had to be eating a mousse. He was certain of it, in fact; there was a very specific awful wet sound he made, when he was particularly enjoying a mousse, and Crowley, hearing it last in 1951, in Marseille, had resolved never to let him order one again out of his sight. The sound of it inspired a surge of bafflement, and a sudden stab of jealousy. Where was Aziraphale? Where did he get off, ordering a mousse and then eating it alone?</p><p>His roving, mustached mouth found the indentation under an ear, a soft and yielding patch of skin, and he bit.</p><p><em>Oh, oh, </em>oh –</p><p>He knew that gasp; the sound of it made him bite harder still. For a moment, he had the wild thought that he was eating an apple, which he had never done before; it was a long-standing aversion which he never felt like examining closely, but somehow the taboo of it no longer seemed important.</p><p>And then he heard a little mewl, a swallowed noise that was disturbingly close to one of pain.</p><p>That made no sense. His hallucinations of Aziraphale never made sounds like that.</p><p>He let go, shocked, and tried desperately to focus.</p><p>Lucidity flickered like a tongue of lightning. He was still in the kitchen of his flat. Someone was panting, pressed flush against him, and, mysteriously, he was half out of his silk shirt. Whoever his companion was had his hands in the fabric and appeared to be helping him take it off, with quick, frantic movements, manicured nails –</p><p>The demon yelped and fell backwards; the shirt hooked on a drawer handle and ripped.</p><p>“My goodness – Crowley – are you –”</p><p>“Angel,” said Crowley, agog, from the floor. It was the only thing he could say.</p><p>Aziraphale, the real Aziraphale, the Aziraphale who had sat in his car ten years ago and said the words <em>too fast </em>to him, was twisting his hands together, staring down at him.</p><p><em>What do I say?</em> the demon thought, dazed, his mouth almost too dry for speech. <em>Are there even words</em><em> that could make this better?</em></p><p>And then, as if reading his mind, the angel said, abruptly, “What if we agreed – look. What if we agreed not to talk about it?”</p><p>“Yes, yep, absolutely, fine by me,” Crowley babbled at once. “Come back tomorrow, and we’ll never mention it ag–”</p><p>“You misunderstand me,” said Aziraphale, and he reached up shakily and undid his collar.</p><p>When he knelt, he smelled like jimsonweed; which was to say, he smelled very much like himself.</p><p>Under his fingertips, Crowley found himself thinking about poison ivy and aloe, the searing trails left by one, the soothing chill of the other. Distantly, he wondered whether any plants in the world contained both, the allergen and the balm, such that the contact burned and subsided in the same instant. It seemed like an impossible contradiction, and time slowed as he felt himself clinging to that lucid thought by his fingernails, the tremulous thesis that nothing in reality should feel like this: like suffering and release together.</p><p>And then Aziraphale ran a thumb across his mustache, and the thumb was dusted with pollen.</p><p>For fuck’s sake, Crowley thought, hysterically, as the kitchen began to dissolve. It couldn’t have been a haworthia, or a bromeliad, or mother-in-law’s tongue. Even poison ivy itself would have been kinder. But no, no, instead Aziraphale had to walk into a shop and be charmed by the one plant that would render a demon powerless.</p><p>“Please,” he begged, to the undulating counter-tops, or perhaps the slowly melting, dribbling cabinets. “Please.”</p><p>“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley shivered all over as he kept saying it: <em>yes, of course, of course. </em></p><p>Someone’s fingers undid his belt; it didn’t matter whose. The response of his body was immediate. As the zipper opened, the strange aloe-ivy burst from his naval and unfurled in a shining mass down his thighs. He heard the catch of Aziraphale’s breath, and then felt cautious fingers running through the leaves that had sprouted from his own skin. Gasping, he arched up into it, and the vines thickened and spread from him, riotous as a weed, or an invasive species, tireless, ravenous –</p><p><em>My d-dear,</em> said the angel, stuttering a little. His voice sounded far away.<em> Are you </em><em>here with me, or are you</em><em>–</em></p><p>If he was ivy, then Aziraphale was an oak. He snaked up the trunk of it, finding little crevices to worm into and flower from – the branches shuddered at the touch, but let him – and eventually he was curled around the wood entirely, threatening to devour, to strangle, to topple.</p><p>It took a full minute of single-minded work, and then the tree finally succumbed. It crashed all the way to the loamy earth, caught him up in its branches, and rolled, carrying him with it. Crowley mouthed frantically at the bark, heard the answering groan from deep within the wood. Fingers gripped his waist, strong as hickory; thumbs dug rootlike into the divots of his hips. And then, another flash of lucidity: he had his mouth fastened against a collarbone – Aziraphale was still, somehow, wearing too many clothes, and shaking wildly – and when Crowley slid a hand down between them, he heard the word <em>yes </em>again<em>, </em>like the answer to a prayer.</p><p>He stripped the tree, peeled the bark carefully back to reveal the naked glossy wood. It tasted like salt and sweat, and at the scrape of his mustache it trembled. He sank into the fork of the branches, mouthing softly, lips lingering. Someone’s fingers twisted in his hair at the flicker of his tongue.</p><p>
  <em>Oh – oh – please come here, I can’t bear it, I – </em>
</p><p>He ascended willingly, pulling himself up towards the canopy, towards sunlight. A mouth sweet as fruit tasted his own, and in his bliss he pressed himself hard against and then into the gleaming wood, which yielded to him. The leap of pleasure was intense.</p><p>
  <em>That’s – oh, that’s –</em>
</p><p>Words weren’t enough. Only kissing could tell this secret. Crowley found that mouth again in the darkness and spoke into it about how it was, exactly, without language.</p><p>Time was accelerating, the minutes flowing like water, carrying them together out to uncharted waters. What was the phrase? Something about neither time nor tide, he thought, and then, fuzzily, a recollection surfaced: long ago, before people had understood how to build ships, men had carved out tree trunks and traveled in them. Crowley had marveled at their bravery, for many had refused to be confined to inland channels and taken the tiny vessels out into open water.</p><p>Now, immersed in the hollow of the tree of Aziraphale, his respect for that era of navigation was greater than ever. He was storm-tossed, buffeted by waves of incredible power, as insignificant as a twig.</p><p><em>My dear,</em><em> look at you,</em> breathed the makeshift canoe, rolling under him. <em>You beautiful thing.</em></p><p><em>No, no, it’s you, </em>he thought feverishly, or perhaps said. <em>It’s always been you, it’s not me, I’m nothing, nothing at all, and you’re everything, a lighthouse, the ocean, the w</em><em>ind, the w</em><em>orld –</em></p><p>With a small, breathless, helpless noise, the little boat rippled in one massive convulsion around him and then dissolved into sea foam, wet salt spray, the surface-level spatter marking the movement of unfathomable depths.</p><p>The waves were as steep as tsunamis now. As they closed over his head, he understood, almost peacefully, that he was going to drown. He couldn’t swim, couldn’t breathe. Perhaps the waters had dragged him under long ago. It seemed more than likely that he had missed the exact moment, had been oblivious to his own peril; looking back, he couldn’t even remember exactly when it had happened. He was sinking fast. He had no idea how far it was to the silty floor.</p><p>And then the clarion call of an angelic trumpet rang out, quite loudly, in his ear, and he realized that he had made a mistake: he was not falling at all, he was rising.</p><p>*</p><p>He opened his eyes.</p><p>He was in his own bed. The shadowed room was lit by a lamp he had never seen before, an extremely ugly 1950s affair with a ruffled shade. He stared at it for a while. Distantly, the thought rose that he probably ought to be grateful: the entity that had called it into being had managed, somehow, to choose a model from this century.</p><p>“We weren’t going to talk about it,” he informed it drowsily.</p><p>Below the shade, in the circle of its light, Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but did not look up from his book. “Hello,” he said softly. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Like we agreed not to talk about it,” Crowley said, “and yet, here you are.”</p><p>The tips of the angel’s ears were pink. “Ah. Well. It seemed worse to take advantage of you and then – sneak off.”</p><p>“ ‘Take advantage’?”</p><p>“Well, what else would you call it?” Aziraphale snapped, and Crowley saw, with sudden, piercing clarity, that beneath the calm expression, the angel was furious with himself.</p><p>Pity warred with reticence, and won. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. He was wide awake, now, and acutely conscious of the fact that, under the duvet, he was naked.</p><p>“I would call it very much desired,” he said quietly, “with or without the jimsonweed.”</p><p>"Six thousand years, I believe you said."</p><p>Crowley swallowed. "Well," he managed to say. "Yeah."</p><p>Aziraphale was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. “My dear, forgive me, but this really does seem like something we should talk about.”</p><p>“Mm, nope, I really don’t think so,” the demon said, who was very much regretting saying anything at all.</p><p>“Crowley.”</p><p>“I would require clothes for that conversation. At a minimum.”</p><p>From the depths of the armchair, Aziraphale still sounded miserable. “And what would you require to receive an apology?”</p><p>Horror curled up through him, the tendrils of a different kind of ivy. “Don’t you <em>dare </em>apologize,” said Crowley fiercely, and then he bit his lip hard enough to prevent himself from saying something wildly embarrassing, such as: <em>the memory of the sounds you made alone </em><em>could</em><em> get me through the next six thousand years.</em></p><p>“Well,” said the angel, fidgeting, “look, I… please know that it’s not how I meant for it to happen.”</p><p>Crowley did not know how to respond to that, and so he did not say a word.</p><p>Aziraphale blew out a long breath, and then closed his book and stood up. He had a determined glint in his eye that made the demon recoil a little.</p><p>“What are you doing?” he said harshly, as the angel crossed the room to the bed. “Going to have a little cuddle, are we? That's what people do, isn't it, after they take pity on someone?”</p><p>“Move,” Aziraphale ordered, which was not an answer.</p><p>Crowley hesitated for a moment, and then bit his lip again and slithered towards the far side of the bed. He could always become a snake again, he told himself, if things got too strange, or if Aziraphale insisted on talking about Feelings, or worse, wanted to know how long he had had them –</p><p>Next to him, the angel settled himself on top of the duvet, and reopened his book. Crowley waited, rigid with nerves, but the conversation did not continue. It took about ten pages before he finally relaxed a little, and let his eyes drift shut, though he was still extremely conscious of the weight beside him.</p><p>It was... strange.</p><p>Humans did this, of course. Every night, many of them went to bed together – not just in the sense of the euphemism (<em>sex,</em> Crowley told himself sternly; why dance around it with clever turns of phrase, when one could just come out and say the word?), but for more than that, too. Two people might find themselves on a mattress for every conceivable purpose under the sun: reading, talking, sleeping with their arms around each other, all for the sake of company.</p><p>But angels did not go to bed with demons. Angels, as far as he knew, did not go to bed, in any sense, with anyone at all, the unfortunate exception of the nephilim aside. It was not done. Had never really been done. Not like this.</p><p>At least, it had never been done until Aziraphale had looked at a jimsonweed and thought <em>why not? “Devil’s cucumber.” Sure. Sounds like a lark. </em></p><p>For fuck’s sake, he thought again.</p><p>“You don’t even sleep.”</p><p>“I’m not sleeping,” Aziraphale pointed out, sounding unruffled. “I’m reading.”</p><p>“You don’t have to stay, you know. Don’t do it for the sake of good manners.”</p><p>“I’d like to stay, and I believe we’re a little past the point of <em>good manners,</em>” said Aziraphale, and then he had the gall, the absolute nerve, the hubris, to set his other hand in Crowley’s hair.</p><p>“Hnnnnygk?” said the demon, eyes opening wide. He was possibly more shocked than he had been at the sight of the jimsonweed.</p><p>The fingers stilled. “Well –” said the angel, awkwardly. “If we’re going to – I thought, since we’ve – and if I’m going to catch up, then I – well. Would you prefer that I didn’t?”</p><p>Their eyes met.</p><p>“I have an idea,” Crowley said, and his voice did <em>not </em>crack, thank you. “What if we agreed not to talk about it?”</p><p>Aziraphale did not smile, exactly, but his eyes softened, and after a moment the hand resumed its careful petting. Crowley exhaled, and pressed his face into the pillow, and tried not to think about the dizzying fact that he might not have to slow down at all.</p><p>“I like the mustache,” the angel murmured, after a while.</p><p>“Do you?”</p><p>“I do. Although I can’t say the same for your interior decorating.” He sniffed. “Too many sharp edges.”</p><p>“It’s Bauhaus,” said Crowley.</p><p>“Bless you.”</p><p>“No, thanks.”</p><p>Aziraphale laughed, and, incredibly, miraculously, kept stroking his hair.</p><p>There was a distinct possibility, Crowley told himself, as he let his eyes drift shut, that he was still hallucinating. There was probably still jimsonweed pollen dusted under his nose. He was also distantly aware that the blooms themselves were somewhere in the flat, a faint certainty, like the titillating brush of a leaf against bare skin, which meant none of this might even be happening.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>“You’ll have to get rid of it for me, you know,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Get rid of what?”</p><p>“The jimsonweed.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry.” The hand in his hair disappeared, just for a moment, and the demon heard the sound of a page turning before the gentle pressure returned. “I’ll take it with me, when I go.”</p><p>Crowley lifted his head again, incredulous; he was familiar enough with the careful syntax of angels that he knew a sidestep when he heard one.</p><p>“Well, I don’t want to <em>destroy</em> it,” said Aziraphale, managing to be prim even under the heat of his yellow glare. “I mean, it <em>is</em> a perennial.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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